


crawling back to you

by JulyB96



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, Older!Thalia, also hi, it's also one of the fics i'm most proud of, oh yeah and, omg pls give me feedback, this is my first fic here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyB96/pseuds/JulyB96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wind without a storm is lost; it does not follow a path, does not circle, is not forceful, and had no chance of taking victory in a match of speed. It flows in many different directions, hoping to find its storm, so it may be pulled in and held, so it may be loved once again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	crawling back to you

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I wrote this for PJO Shipweeks, and now after the series is over, I'm finally on Ao3. I hope you all enjoy, and I would very much appreciate feedback. Thank you for reading!

I (VI). They were a forced to be reckoned with.

She was power, he was speed. She was the calm before the storm, that eerily peaceful moment, that had you breathing easy, but kept you on the edge of your seat, until the sky opened up and she came at you, suffocating, making it hard to breathe. Running for cover you make it out alive every time, unless the lighting strikes and you’re hit and then you’re falling, unable to move and yet, if she is the calm, you are the wind that follows after, unable to leave the storm alone, always trying to catch up, and you think maybe you should stop, but you never do. And when you’re together, she is power, and you are speed, reaching for each other, crushing everything in your path, the storm kills and the wind is there to hold it, to aid it, always circling around it, making sure they never broke apart.

How strange, it seems you’ve been broke for awhile now.

II. Air was a luxury, or maybe, it wasn’t.

He used to be able to function properly, he inhaled and he exhaled. He remembers, at a young age, he could handle his life to an extent, and then he ran away, but he could still breathe. If he was walking, climbing, sleeping, running for his life through a dense thicket, as his feet pounded against the damp, earthen floor, yeah, he could still breathe. Until he had the blessing of meeting her, then it was like the air forced its way from his throat, like her presence seemed to remove oxygen from their proximity. Around her air was thin, and his head was often light, but her smile was bright, her eyes hard, her skin soft, but her fingers rough. She was a walking contradiction, and sometimes his lungs felt as if they’d crack, but the air hurt more if she was not near, he couldn’t adjust back, it was a lost battle, so he adjusted.

When he thinks back, he wonders if it was really his lungs that had hurt.

III. Insanity couldn’t even try to match this.

Wind without a storm is lost; it does not follow a path, does not circle, is not forceful, and had no chance of taking victory in a match of speed. It flows in many different directions, hoping to find its storm, so it may be pulled in and held, so it may be loved once again. But what the wind hadn’t known, was that there are many storms, he had realized to late, that some storms eradicate problems, a dangerous branch perhaps, but others seek to destroy, to terminate. He found another storm, it was dark and cold, he couldn’t see, he was blind. The storm did not suffocate, it crushed him instead, and the calms led to eerie whispers in the back of his mind. He was lost, he was trapped; it pulled him far, far away.  


But the whispers said he’d get her back.

IV. No wonder Zeus was known for being the hot head.

When she woke, he wasn’t there, not there for her to hold, to breathe in, to consume. She was confused, for how could that dazzling boy with the smirk turn into a monster, a twisted, vortex of a once good man. They told her lies, she did not believe them, she could not, a storm cannot be pushed without wind, after all. A bitter feeling settled in the pit of her chest, leaving an iron taste at the back of her throat, never leaving, just growing more distasteful. The storm thrashed wildly inside her, releasing itself in fits of anger, violent and unnerving. She couldn’t change, couldn’t move on, the wind was lacking, so every step she took was strained, painful. But if this journey led her to him, she would brave the most tedious of paths.

They were on the edge, she stared him down, the lies were true, she looked to his eyes, the lies were false. She took a step. Too close.

V. The woman of doves’ smiles, laughing at her own creation.

He found her, she’ll never know how, she’ll never know why, but he found her in the hush of wind rustling between trees, and the glow of silver as it seeped into with the night like syrup. They took each other in, breathes even, bodies lax and separated by the calm, the calm before the storm that reminded him of her. It was silent and peaceful, it seemed to lull him into a state of tranquility, and just being near her sent precious oxygen to his lungs, to his head, to his mind.

Then he heard the crack of thunder in the air, like a whip. She shocked against him, and he couldn’t breathe again, his arms wrapped around her tight, he cried for air. Her eyes rocked his soul to the core, he did not look away, his mouth dried up, his last puff of breathe escaped him, slowly pushing through her lips, invading her mouth, sweeping across her tongue.

Something cracked inside her, she pulled him to her and the storm raged, the sky ripped open, the wind snaked around, through the clouds, down across the ground, pushing, pulling, tearing everything apart. They were on the floor, her back pressed down against the earth, he atop her, leaving marks across her skin, heat spreading faster than he could move. He panted against her skin, fingers leaving marks as they dug into her hips, her thighs. She groaned, her claws seeking revenge, ripping at the skin, etching lines up and down his back, red and raw.

Mouths pressed down on each other, leaving marks, creating bruises. His lips traveled along her collar bone, between her breasts, down her abdomen, lower and lower until her voice broke the silence that had crept around them. It shattered like glass, and then he could hear her, hear the words escaping out her mouth, urging him, praying, pleading, and he could do nothing but oblige. It felt like only minutes had passed before she yanked him back, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck, pushing him over, straddling him, hand coming to rest at the base of his throat.

She was shaking, he felt it through her hand and through her hips, her chest rose and fell in rhythm with her hurried breathing. They were bare against one another, naked and vulnerable against the landscape; she presses her hand below his navel and something twists deep inside him.

“Thalia,” He chokes out, voice rough and deep and scratchy from lack of use.

Her eyes snap up, mouth agape, because they hadn’t said a word, they did not greet, they did not talk, they did not communicate, they did not address one another and he just d i d. Lips are back on his with a sudden fierceness that he can taste on his tongue, and then he heard it, the small whine that was whispered between mouths, that little ‘luke’ that had him kissing back with violent force. They lost themselves, bodies molding together, limbs interlocking, hands grasping on for dear life. The storm and the wind, and speed and power all mixed together, creating noise and destruction and never looking back for they were to consumed with one another.

They were never ones to be quiet about something, so the night hid their secrets for them.

VII. The never ending debate: death versus immortality.

A storm is left at a standstill without wind, power is nothing without speed to readily push it towards victory, because if it doesn’t push fast enough, the storm will dissipate and power will crumble. That’s exactly what she did, if anyone wanted to inquire, crumble and break as his death surrounded her. Now, she was the one suffocating, she was the one to find cover underneath the moon, she was the one who had no air, because without wind the storm did not progress and so her lungs seemed to refuse new oxygen, her feet did not want to tread on new ground, her eyes would not gaze upon new sights. He was there, everywhere she went, everything reminded her of him, living reminded her of him. She cried until tears no longer came and she screamed until her voice disappeared, and time slid by slowly, painfully, but death would never come for her. The world was a beautiful, terrifying place and she felt as if she was being crushed from the inside, because he wasn’t there. But she knew him to well, she could see the frown on his face as she destroyed herself, she felt the frown on her face for the same reason. So, the storm held still, returning to the calm it once was. Always peaceful, sometimes hurting, but she kept breathing easy, she was left to live in eternal serenity.

One day, a wind blew through the camp, ruffling leaves and coats and fur. Pushing her hair into her face ever so lightly, almost like a kiss.

The storm shifted.


End file.
